


I'm Going To Have Someone's Hide For This!!

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 20:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15032831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A job that could have made their reputation suddenly turns into a job that could have DESTROYED their reputation and sent them all to prison.  Just who had screwed up so badly?  Garrison intended to find out, and oh boy, when he did!!!





	I'm Going To Have Someone's Hide For This!!

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the end of the war, after the team starts doing their own missions, ahem, sorry 'consultations'.

Craig Garrison sat at his desk, going back over all the flowcharts, the diagrams, the lists, the reports - everything from that last 'consultation' on behalf of that ever so respectable client, Mr. Anthony Armstrong, of New York City, USA, collector of art, son and grandson of men who'd had the same passion. He had to figure out who'd slipped up and how, had to make sure it didn't happen again. That little oversight, who EVER had made it, had almost cost them everything they'd fought so hard to put together, could have not only ruined their budding professional reputation, could have landed the whole lot of them in prison for a hell of a long time.

Not only that, it had gotten him the chewing out of his life from Meghada; she'd switched from English about a quarter way into her tirade and he only found relief in the fact that he didn't understand Celtic. He figured it was just better that way.

He ran his fingers through his already disheveled blond hair. Sighing heavily, he got up to pour himself another cup of coffee, wrinkling his nose at the burnt smell that was familiar to them all, the smell that accompanied each and every pot of coffee he attempted, He still hadn't gotten the hang of making good coffee, though he still tried to pretend he actually LIKED what he produced. It was a matter of pride, rough on his taste buds and on his stomach, but still . . . He wished he had the nerve to go ask Meghada to make him a fresh pot, but frankly he didn't, not yet. 

After standing at the open French doors for a few minutes trying to clear his head and cool his temper, he took up the task again. Looking at the lists again, muttering to himself, "so, okay, Casino was in charge of the security system and the big safe, if we didn't find them anywhere else. Goniff got us the right clothes, picked those keys off the major domo easy enough, got them back in place."

Background on Armstrong and his collector father, Kingsley Armstrong, along with the grandfather, Michael Armstrong, that had fallen to Lizzie and Lynn.

Research on the actual paintings had been Actor's job, him being their acknowledged art expert, although he had expressed his own rather caustic opinion of anyone's calling the paintings 'art', Actor being a traditionalist in that area. The others had laughed at him, as usual, but after taking a good look at the photographs of the paintings provided by the client, Goniff, him without the filters, HAD asked one more question, when Garrison explained who had stolen the paintings, how and probably when. In fact, Goniff had raised his eyebrows and stated, "the question, Craig, isn't who, 'ow or when. The question is WHY??!"

Well, Garrison admitted the style wasn't likely to be to everyone's taste, and he wouldn't have wanted either of them hanging in his own quarters, still, art was a matter of taste, as he explained for probably the hundredth time to the sardonic little Englishman. Goniff had taken another close look, one titled 'Without Hope', the other 'A Few Small Nips', both by artist Frida Kahlo, then shook his head firmly, "Craig, no." (If anyone had told them one of that artist's paintings would sell in the area of $8,000,000 many years in the future, they would have offered you a drink and a cool place to lie down til you felt better!) Garrison had expected Actor to make SOME defense of the argument they'd heard from him so many times, only to see him firmly in agreement with their resident pickpocket for once; surrealism, especially folk surrealism, totally escaped him.

Garrison had cleared his throat, seeing the rest of the team pretty much agreed, "well, that doesn't really matter. Mr. Armstrong is not happy at Miss Nielsen for taking the paintings from his father's house and substituting the forgeries; he wants the originals back, but discreetly, no publicity, no official complaint. Just wants us to switch them back, quietly, and deliver them to him in New York. It should be reasonably simple." {"Right, reasonably simple; just like the old days!"}

And it had been simple, in many ways. Miss Nielsen maintained a residence in Stockholm, outside the city itself, lightly staffed, minimal security. Casino had gotten the drawings from the establishment installing the security system, had scoffed at them having the nerve to call it that.

"Coulda done better with some tin cans with marbles and string! Or like we found in India, little bells hung all over the windows! Piece a cake, no problem!"

Goniff had twiddled his fingers and the keys magically appeared. They were all dressed to fit in with either the staff or the guests that had been invited for this little exhibition Miss Nielsen had arranged, well, with the discreet encouragement from various quarters. Actor was resplendent in his moustache and 'art curator' persona. It was one of the smoothest jobs ever undertaken, two paintings on the way back to their car, two replacements already on the hooks in that upstairs gallery, not the main one where the exhibit was taking place, but the little annex.

Til a certain redhead had shown up, serene smile on her carefully made-up face, banked fire in her gold-brown eyes, all apologies as she bumped into Garrison at the doorway. And in addition to all the apologies, one quickly hissed, "get the bloody paintings switched back! Now, Craig!!! Then everyone back to the hotel!"

There was no time, no opportunity for explanations, but he'd seen that look in her eyes a time or two, and knew there'd be hell to pay if he didn't hop to it. Yes, he was the one in charge of the operation; yes, he was the 'boss'. SHE, on the other hand, was the Dragon, and obviously, one highly pissed off Dragon.

He'd made a quick roundup of the guys, not giving any explanations of his own. Well, how could he when HE didn't have a clue what was going on! The switch was made back, they all departed using the original various exit plans, and it was back to the hotel where they were met by a still seething Meghada.

Room service had delivered food - lots of little sandwiches and sweets - and drink, no bourbon to Meghada's further annoyance but Sweden hadn't progressed that far towards her expected level of bare living conditions yet. No, it was a variety of brannvin, aquavit, whiskeys. Craig noted that Meghada had already broached a bottle of brannvin, which was at about the halfway mark already, and winced. That did NOT bode well.

He had finally asked, after a couple of years of watching her consume quantities of liquor that would have sent any of them into a crashing drunk and a world-class hangover, neither of which she ever seemed to experience. (More than one of the team had bitched and moaned about how unfair that was!). He had finally asked how she could do that and not have any repercussions, and she'd been amused, certainly not offended.

"I don't drink to relax, Craig, or to get intoxicated either. I enjoy the flavor of bourbon, most certainly, better than all the rest, but mostly the liquor keeps my, shall we say, my 'fires' glowing nicely, glowing but also keeping them from getting out of control. It also keeps my temper from becoming more unpleasant than it could easily get."

He'd thought about the various times she'd let her temper get just a little unpleasant, even with the presence of liquor, thought of the number of people who'd ended up dead or in the hospital, and after that made sure they had a constant supply of bourbon, whiskey and anything else he thought might keep things on an even keel. Goniff had just grinned at her explanation and Garrison's reaction.

"It's a good investment, Craig. Don't mind it 'eatin up in the bedroom, but the rest of the place, not so much. If it keeps 'er from burning the place down around our ears, let's order in another case!"

Now, she was pacing back and forth, lips tight with annoyance, gulping the potent drink from what had to be a water goblet, certainly not one of the shot glasses that had been delivered with the liquor.

"Did you switch them back?" she asked tensely, not meeting anyone's eyes, "without being seen?"

That got a few backs up, of course, since they WERE professionals. Actor spoke up, more than a little annoyance in his face and voice as well, "we DO know what we are doing, Meghada!"

She turned, draining the glass in her hand, reaching for the bottle of whiskey this time, refilling and taking a healthy swig. "Yes, that's what I THOUGHT, certainly. Would it interest you to know . . ." and she was off on a tear.

Well, yes, it had interested them to know, all the things she told them. First, Mr. Armstrong was not just a noted collector, his father and grandfather before him; he, they were also expert copyists. Could, and frequently DID, make quite expert copies of valuable and potentially valuable art. Also were quite expert at switching those oh-so-good copies for the originals, so while their OWN collections held some very fine pieces of very valuable art, the actual OWNERS of that art held some very fine imitations! That Mr. Armstrong had always done his own detail work, ie retrieval and replacement, not wanting to bring outsiders into the mix, but had had a little accident a few months ago and was no longer quite so agile, had a facial scar rather difficult to obscure, so obviously had decided to get someone else to do his little 'switching'.

They tried protesting, saying it couldn't be; they were experts at the con; no way could anyone con them. She just kept pacing, and Garrison could almost imagine threads, shimmers of heat pulsing off her agitated form. When Goniff jumped up, grabbed a bottle and hurriedly refilled her glass, he figured he hadn't been the only one to have seen that, that it hadn't been a figment of his imagination.

She was back to fuming, but at least now, after a brief spell when she'd totally lost her English, she was back to where they could understand her. Whether that was a good thing or not was debatable.

"I leave to answer a Gathering-In and you go off and do something like this! Dilic KNEW about that family; you KNOW to check with her before you do any jobs like this, just as a safeguard. It's her bloody business, after all! Maybe there won't be anything special ninety-nine out of a hundred times, but WE ASK HER! That was agreed upon, right at the start! If I hadn't looked over the notes . . .

The trip back to The Cottages was an unusually quiet one, not even Goniff thinking to break the silence. Chief had brought Lizzie and Lynn up to speed on the developments, and everyone pretty much steered clear of the still pissed-off Dragon, who was now slamming around in the kitchen. If nothing else good came of this, Lynn figured they had enough food in the new freezer to last them a goodly amount of time; Meghada tended to cook or bake anymore when she got upset, which had to better than some of her previous methods of letting off steam. Ben Miller had, rather apologetically, made the request that they, SHE, confine the pistol fire to daylight hours, and it was only the lack of close neighbors that prevented a similar complaint about her playing "Ride of the Valkyries" at the highest volume their record player could manage. 

Now, back at The Cottages, mulling over that stack of paper, reports and lists and all else, Garrison knew she was right to be pissed. It had been stupid, careless, could have proved disasterous; just, who'd slipped up? And she had to know! She'd said something about getting back and looking over the notes; if she hadn't seen something, she wouldn't have known to show up in Stockholm! He'd asked her, and she'd just snarled at him, and went to pull out that damned record again. And he used to LIKE Wagner!

In frustration, doing something he'd never do with anyone else in the room, he swept the entire stack off onto the floor, just in time for Actor to walk through the doorway.

The tall aristocratic man raised his brows in mock surprise, "problems, Craig?" and gained a deep flush from their leader.

"No, just . . ." Garrison quickly stooping to gather the mess from the floor, putting it back in some kind of order. Actor frowned as Garrison froze, looking down, then slowly picked up one sheet, looking at what was written on it. Garrison swallowed heavily, walked carefully back to the desk and sat down, all the other papers tidied carefully and sat aside. The one in his hand, he slowly turned from one side to the other, then back again.

Actor sat down in the chair, waiting patiently. Finally Craig raised his more than a little sheepish green eyes.

"Item eleven, it was on the back. One through ten were on the front, each one of them checked off. That last one, on the back- "call Dilic for a final check on all parties and the artwork."

Actor cleared his throat, "no check mark, I assume?" he asked.

Garrison shook his head in disgust, "no check mark!"

Actor was silent for a moment, "and whose list . . ."

Garrison's disgust couldn't have been any greater, "mine, of course. MINE!"

And Actor just couldn't quite stifle the combined snort and snicker that rolled up from his chest. He tried, of course, but he just couldn't quite manage it.

Garrison tried to work up a glare, but couldn't; he was too busy thinking, {"I'm damned glad I DIDN'T ask Meghada to make me a pot of coffee! That would NOT have been pretty!"}


End file.
